


Mornings After Nightmares

by poisontaster



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-13
Updated: 2008-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Today will be a bad day.  He can tell that already.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mornings After Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apetslife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/gifts).



John rolls out of bed in the morning and stifles his groan at the low level ache in the small of his back and his hip flexors. They'll straighten out soon enough. He's getting older, but he's not old yet and he's in damn fine shape for a man his age. Not gonna be none of that getting fat on a couch in front of a TV for him. Gotta stay sharp. 

He throws on ragged old sweats and far newer—and more expensive—shoes. Shoes are the one thing he'll spend obscene amounts of money on, and he knows why. But it's a practical indulgence so he lets himself get away with it. He knows the dangers of having bad—or no—shoes. 

Matt is still sleeping, a tangle of dark hair in a bigger tangle of blankets. John looks over at him and considers dragging the kid out to run with him, but Matt's sleeping peaceful for a change (this week's been especially bad) and John is restless with nightmares, a strange see-saw of PTSD. If that's how it's going to be, with one of them calm only when the other's freaking out, then this…this thing is gonna have a short shelf life, he thinks, snagging his keys off the breakfast bar and ghosting from the apartment. 

He does his stretches on the bus bench on the corner, feeling the aches sharpen and then ease. Old, tired muscles twang, but it's in readiness. John does a little one-two- _punch_ and then starts running. He vaguely remembers kidding the kid once about jogging, but that's not really what he does. Not what they do, on the occasions that they run together. _Run_ is the right word, moving fast through the predawn/early-dawn of a New York morning, threading through dead-eyed early commuters and other, slower joggers, old people who can't sleep much of a night and come out to flock like the pigeons ringed around them. Their voices sound the same, a mild twittering-coo that fills up John's ears like white noise and passes off. Sometimes he'll slow down for sharp voices, angry voices, but it's hardly anything he needs to worry about. Along with his keys in his off hand, he keeps a sap folded into his right, just in case.

Mornings after a nightmare… Well, John's not quite crazy enough to _want_ someone to fuck with, but he thinks it would almost be easier if someone _did_ , a way to burn off this angry, nervous energy. A way to assert himself over the endless Hans Grubers and Thomas Gabriels that parade, sneering through his dreams. But no one does and John finally circles back around to his place, unsatisfied heat curling in his belly.

Today will be a bad day. He can tell that already. Sun ain't even up and the sluggish summer heat's already starting to rise. Dog-days, they call it. Crazy days, when people act like animals cause this heat crawls in their brains and fries anything resembling common sense. He feels it, that little burning coal that could become a wildfire. These are the days he snaps at his boss and mouths off to skells, rather than putting the situation down. He'll flirt with danger, hoping it'll take him up on the offer. 

But he won't drink. His mouth is wringing with want for it already, but he won't drink. He might've buried that AA chip in his change jar, but he _earned_ that sonofabitch and he's not giving it back now.

John breaks into a sprint all the way back to the apartment.

Inside the door, John just scrapes out of all of his clothes, leaves them in a pile in front of the door. The sap and his keys slide across his coffee table. His thighs are trembling so bad he's not sure they'll hold him up in the shower, but he refuses to sit down. Gotta be better than this. Tougher. People aren't gonna take it any easier on him just because he's knocking on fifty instead of twenty. 

John heads for the shower, worrying about the asthmatic wheeze his air conditioning's taking on. No human being should be without air conditioning when the heat's like this and the bedroom in particular gets to be like an oven with its small, inconvenient windows. Nothing he can do about it now, though he wonders if he can convince his friend Gino to come take a look at it or, at worse, give him a deal on a new one. Damn thing's probably about as old as Lucy. 

The shower spits cold water at him—no surprise there; the plumbing's probably older than him. John flinches, cursing, then leans into it, letting it soothe the burn from his skin. 

"Hey." A sleepy mumble as Matt bumps blindly into first the doorframe and then the sink. Matt is not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, unless that stretch includes Matt staying away all night into morning.

"Hey." John lathers up his face and turns it under the spray. He's not sure why it still makes him feel weird to watch Matt do stuff, simple stuff, like drain the lizard while John's in the shower, but it does. He's seen the kid naked in and in positions he's never in his life even guessed at, but something about half-awake Matt holding his piss-hard-and-softening cock in his hands just twists in John's stomach like he's been stabbed. "Don't you fuckin' flush."

Matt snorts through his nose. "I'm not."

John's still got soap in his face and so he doesn't see what happens next, but he hears the shower curtain rings rasp back on the rod. He turns around and opens his streaming eyes to watch Matt climb in the tub with him.

Neither one of them are small guys and there's not that much room. John feels the coal in his belly burn a little brighter and hotter and he isn't sure if it's irritation or want. He lets himself think on that for a second; that he wants that long, pale, angular body, barely old enough for the dark trail of hair framing the soft cock. He wants that wide mouth and big, clever hands that can't be anything but mannish. He wants that soft, circumcised cock. 

"What're you doing?" John asks the question, but he closes his eyes again and tips his face back into the shower spray when he says it. 

It shouldn't be, but it's startling when Matt's fingers spread out across John's side, dragging down and sideways until they takes John's dick in hand. "I figured you weren't coming back to bed." Matt's voice is always a little deeper in the morning, before he gets excited and starts sounding like a cartoon of himself. "So the mountain came to Mohammed." He rubs down the length of John's cock, sweet hard friction that's got John filling his palm in no time flat. 

"Kinda tight in here," John observes, wishing he sounded less breathless about it. 

Matt flicks a smile, pressing closer until John's ass is touching tile and the shower caddy's digging into his shoulder. "I thought you liked me tight?"

"Jesus, Matt." John curls one hand around Matt's neck and the other across the kid's jaw as he pulls him in—mostly to shut him up before John comes like a fifteen year old.

John hates to admit he's getting used to the kid's constant noise, but he does love the way Matt hums into kisses—almost a moan, like John's lips are steak, ice cream and candy all rolled up into one. He also likes the kid's ability to multitask and that having his soul sucked out through his mouth doesn't deter Matt's hand from stripping John's dick one little bit. 

John can only look at Matt in short blinks, half-blinded by the water still streaming over them. Matt's face looks bigger, older, with his silly hair flattened down and slicked back under the spray. John lets go of Matt's jaw to run his fingers down Matt's back and finally cup that ass, dragging Matt closer.

Matt shivers and hums and puts the arm not occupied with stroking John off around John's back. John can feel all the new muscle the kid's put on, wiry strength that you'd never guess at to see him in his oversized clothes.

John lets his fingers wander over, dip into the cleft of Matt's ass and rub across him. Matt's hole is soft, closed again but still pliant to the touch. Matt's shivering gets worse but he pushes his hips back, jerking John faster, harder. 

John presses two fingers inside Matt, careful and slow, enjoying the way Matt's body ripples with the sensation, the way his arm tightens hard around John's waist and his fingers close punishingly tight over John's cock. Matt's hum becomes a full out begging moan, mouth trembling over John's. 

Matt's legs spread a little wider—as wide as they can in the narrow tub—and his hand gets more frantic stroking over John's dick. John fucks into him slow, reaching deep, making Matt's hips piston with each thrust. 

When John comes, it's like the end of the run and the hard sprint up the stairs; dull color pulses behind his eyelids and his thighs and knees turn weak. He freezes with his fingers held deep in Matt's body, afraid he's going to hurt him, until the last spasms pass. 

Matt puts his head down on John's shoulder, pushing into John with his body. "J-john…" Matt's voice shakes. "John, please…"

"Yeah." John's voice isn't too steady either, He brushes his lips across Matt's wet hair and then tucks the kid better against him, resuming the slow piston of his fingers in Matt's body. "Yeah, Matt. Okay."

"Harder." Matt's nails dig into John's back. "Ohh…fuck. Harder. _Harder._ "

Matt lets go of John's sticky cock to wrap around his own, knuckles brushing against John's belly. John can't see, but the mental image of Matt stroking himself with a handful of John's come threatens to melt what's left of John's brain. 

"Come on, Matty," he urges, reaching down to spread Matt wider, give his fingers more room to move, sharp, forceful thrusts that make Matt bite down on John's shoulder whimpering on each one. "You're all right; come on."

The first pulse of Matt's come against John's stomach comes as a shock. It feels hot enough to sear the skin. Matt doesn't cry out until the second spurt, a sharp, hurt noise that makes John pull Matt tighter against him, burying his face in thick, wet hair. 

"You're all right," John keeps murmuring, stroking Matt through the hard, clutching spasms. "You're all right."

They don't spend a lot of time on aftermath. Matt nuzzles briefly at John's mouth, his lips soft, slack and smiling. John skims his hands all over that sharp-boned body like he's trying to memorize it for the long day ahead. They soap up fast and take turns jumping under the now-freezing water, shoving like John's in high school all over again. 

John likes this a lot more than he ever liked high school, though.

"What time you think you're coming back?" Matt asks through a mouthful of toothpaste while John tugs on socks. 

John shrugs. "Theoretically, my shift ends at seven. But you know how good I am at theory."

Matt hums agreement before spitting into the sink. "'kay. You wanna just call me when you're on your way, or something? I'll meet you here?"

John grabs his wallet out of the jumble of pocket trash on the nightstand and pulls out the little envelope he tucked in the bill fold. He walks over to Matt and turns the kid's palm up before dumping out the contents. "Or you could just use your key."

Even with a mouthful of foaming toothpaste, Matt's smile is a sight to behold. "So I'll just meet you here, then?"

John smirks. 'Yeah. Here is good."

Today is looking up.


End file.
